Smoking is bad for you
by NickL4Dolas
Summary: Smoker x Rochelle (fluff. Barely!)
1. Damn Brat!

(Smoker x Rochelle? :D)

Chapter 1: Damn brat!

Smoker hiccoughed. The smoke was getting to his lungs again, tearing at his throat and making him feel worse. If that was possible.

"Pounce!" Hunter yelled, and jumped on his friend. Smoker turned round and pushed Hunter off.

"Dude," Hunter whined. "You're meant to play along. It's time to be a Survivor!"

Smoker sighed wearily. The game he played with the young Hunter was where he pretended they were a Survivor, and the little Hunter tried to attack him. Although it always ended with a pouting Hunter hanging upside down in the air, suspended from Smoker's tongue while he was scolded.

"Hah! Disembowel," Hunter cried, clawing at one of the many sensitive tumours on Smoker's face; a tongue whipped out and grasped the kid.

"Not the face!" Smoker said angrily, while the little Hunter glared sulkily. Yes, it always ended like that. Smoker sighed, bored.

Being in his late thirties, he was much more mature than the seven year old Hunter. Which was good, because - being an annoying kid: naïve, impatient, rude and always sticking his nose into things - Hunter was constantly saved by his elder.

"Come on, Hunter. Don't be an imaimashii gaki!" Smoker complained.

"What does that mean?" the little Hunter blurted out.

"Damn brat," Smoker snapped shortly. "Any more contributions?" Hunter remained silent, pout growing more petulant.

"Look, kiddo." Smoker placed Hunter gently on the ground, and faced him, kneeling so he was opposite the little boy.

"I'm sorry," Hunter snapped, trying to squirm free of the arm grasping his wrist. "Can I go now, I found a really cool-"

"No! Bedtime," Smoker said fiercely, seeing the sun rising. "The Survivors wake up and go about around now. You will not get in their way."

"Again."

"Proving my point! In the warehouse, now. You're grounded 'til tomorrow. And I will be watching," Smoker added warningly. Hunter stuck his tongue out, and stomped into the warehouse. Smoker checked and saw Hunter was tucked up under his ragged blanket, staring at the ridged ceiling grumpily.

Groaning, Smoker slowly sat down. The smoke was getting to his bones ... Even though he was only thirty-eight, his joints creaked with exertion when he sat or stood. Maybe it was the strain of the smoke ripping him up inside.

Smoker fished about in his grubby, green, short-sleeved jacket pocket, and found what he was looking for. A cigarette and lighter.

"Hah," Smoker muttered gruffly, clamping the cigarette between his teeth and lighting it. "Even if I wanted to stop I couldn't."

"Stop what?" Smoker jumped as he saw the little Hunter squatting by him. A huge puff of smoke exhaled from Smoker's nose as he registered the Hunter.

"You're meant to be in bed!" he said, but only halfheartedly. Hunter stuck his tongue out again, before staring at the cigarette.

Then he picked up a stick and stuck it in his mouth; next Hunter did a 'derp' face and covered up one eye.

"I'm Smoker," he cried in a ridiculous voice, and scowled when a tongue slapped his cheek in anger. Smoker shushed him anxiously.

"Survivors!" he growled.

Brow furrowed, he listened intently. He could hear boot steps, the clanks of guns, the smell of pills, and the stench of blood. The Survivors.


	2. Rifles and claws

Chapter 2: Rifles and claws

Ellis ran a hand through his sweaty hair before putting his cap back on. His Bull-Shifters shirt was soaked with zombie gore and entrails, and his trusty rifle was clenched in his hand.

Rochelle was brushing back her dark hair; Coach was rubbing a hand over his boiling head, brushing the sweat droplets off; and Nick was muttered silently, loosening his shirt collar, the lipstick smudge still just visible.

"Reckon there're anymore zombies?" Rochelle was saying, the group oblivious to the two Special Infected sat a few metres away.

"Don't worry about it, Ro, you fire a mean shot," Coach smiled grimly. "Though I daresay even Nick would come to your aid."

The pessimist muttered something about explosives and problems.

"What's that?" Coach asked delicately.

"The plan will never work! Blasting a bridge apart to kill zombies won't work, will it? So-"

"Oh, but it's worked before," Ellis interrupted, knocking the pessimist in the chin with the rifle butt. "Now be quiet unless you want the trigger pulled next time I do that."

Nick frowned and rubbed his throat, before freezing. He heard a voice.

"I'm Smoker," it shrieked. He heard a loud slap, then a shushing sound, and another - lower - voice.

"Survivors!"

Ellis crept over to a nearby wall, peering round it silently. He saw a Smoker and a little Hunter.

"SURVIVORS!" the Smoker screamed as he saw Ellis pull back his head, too late. The young Hunter leapt up.

"Play like it's the game! Kill them!" the Smoker yelled. The Hunter nodded, and suddenly it's fresh face was twisted into a fierce snarl of a wild animal. With a terrifying screech he crouched and leapt at Ellis.

His small legs hit the man's belly and the sharp claws built for exenteration began to carve strips of flesh from Ellis' midriff.

Being small and agile, the little Hunter could dodge the bullets Coach and the dithering Nick shot, and be back ripping at Ellis in just seconds.

The Smoker got up slower. Rochelle was shocked; normal Smokers would jump up and lash out with their tongue on sight.

This Smoker was hacking phlegm, wheezing as he pushed himself to his feet.

"I'm ... gonna ... kill you!" he rasped. But even then, as he stood swaying, he tried to totter towards Rochelle. He collapsed, a cigarette falling from his mouth. Rochelle raised a shaking gun and pointed it at the Smoker's head.

And put the gun in her pocket. She lifted the limp Special Infected. Coach saw her.

"Damn it, Rochelle, kill it now!" he roared. "And help us save Ellis!"

But at the sight of the fallen Smoker, the young Hunter's eyes had grown large and round in fear.

"Smoker!" he wailed, rushing over and grabbing the unconscious Special Infected's head. It lolled in his hands, the mouth hanging loosely open, revealing the pointy teeth and massive tongue within.

"Smoker!" the little Hunter sobbed, and in Rochelle's eyes he was just like a lost little boy, abandoned and alone.

But as her hand touched his boil-covered, shaking arm the Hunter whipped round and hissed viciously. Like a stung animal, she yanked her arm back. Growling deep in his throat, the Hunter turned back to face the Smoker, and began to cry again, cradling his only friend's now unresponsive head.

"Bloody hell," Nick swore. "I ain't ever seen anything like that!"


	3. Staring contest

3: Staring contest

When the Smoker's ragged eyelids fluttered open his vision was blurred. All he could see was a brown blob, topped with black blobs and with a array of pink blobs beneath it. Yet as Smoker's vision grew sharper, more focused, he saw a concerned human face. A Survivor, the female!

Smoker struggled to sit up, his tongue smacking her face weakly. A soft hand touched his rough skin, calming, soothing.

Ignoring the gesture of kindness and comfort, Smoker kept writhing. Though her eyes and touch seemed to trust him, the rest of her obviously didn't: he was restrained, belts and buckles holding him down firm.

Smoker snarled angrily like a wolverine, spitting and thrashing, tongue waving in the air; soon, though, he got exhausted, panting heavily from the exertion. A cold, wet sponge rubbed over his forehead. He slapped it away, still not ready to succumb to his enemies.

"Come on, you're sick!" Rochelle groaned, exasperated. "Let me at least cool your temperature." All Rochelle got in return was a glare and a pout.

"Is this thing giving you trouble, Ro?" Nick interjected. He cast a skeptical eye over Smoker, who returned it with a slightly curious, slightly mocking one.

"I never thought I'd see Nick having a staring contest with a zombie," Ellis muttered incredulously. Him and Coach were watching Nick, but Rochelle's attention was now averted to the little Hunter.

"No ... no! Survivors! They've got Smoker!" he was whimpering. The nightmare was about his guardian being taken away.

As he turned over his hood snagged on the bedpost, pulling off his head. To reveal a thick crop of shaggy, black hair, and empty eye sockets. The black voids glistened.

"Holy shit," Coach murmured in horror. "Ro, get away from that thing!" he added as Hunter sat up.

What happened next was what nobody expected.

The small Hunter flung his arms around Rochelle, tightly hugging her waist, sobbing and choking as he saw Smoker, who had once again lapsed into unconsciousness, eyes rolling back into his head.

"I- is he go- going to die?" the child gulped, his eyes screwed shut, anguished tears of despair streaming. If the moment hadn't been to sad for Rochelle, she would've laughed at her fellow Survivor's reactions.

All three men's mouths were gaping open in shock, eyes wide and eyebrows questioning, identical - comical - expressions.

"I don't know," Rochelle said simply. The little Hunter let out a cry of grief, louder than before, hugging Rochelle tighter. "But we'll do everything we can!" she added quickly. The Hunter wiped his eyes, and let Rochelle put him back in the bed.

His eyelids slowly shut, drifting off into another tainted sleep.

"We need that thing outta here," Nick said.

Rochelle hit him angrily.

"He's just a kid, and this guy is sick!" she snapped at the pessimist. He grumbled but didn't retaliate.

Smoker suddenly started coughing, shaking as he spasmed with the violent hacking, shuddering so violently the restraints snapped.

Blood speckled the white sheets. Rochelle stared at the other Survivors. What now?


	4. Fallen angel

Chapter 4: Fallen angel

The Witch cried. Nobody knew why she did. She just cried and cried, her lonely voice echoing through dark chambers or abandoned tunnels.

Sometimes she even walked, slowly moving around, still crying. Maybe it was the pain of being alone. Maybe it was the pain of knowing nothing could help her.

She just cried and cried and cried, straggly, faded blonde hair hanging over her face in thin strands, hands and fingers over her face to block the sight of her tears.

If she was startled by Survivors, however, it was a different story. Her elongated fingers were claws, like normal fingers stretched to a foot long ending with a point. No fingernails. Just the flesh of her fingers hardening into deadly scythes made for decapitating. Every memory of an attack came flooding back to her ...

Eyes flashing, flashing like fiery coals; a mouth, screaming, warning her enemies and telling them to run; and standing, standing as she began the attack ... Swiping, slashing, trying vainly to kill until bullets were emptied into her body ...

Maybe that's why her clothes were so meagrely applied: a lifetime of bullets ravaging them to nothing but a shredded vest and underwear. Similarly coloured to her hair, like straw but more brown, stained, dirty.

She was crying now, tears glittering as they rolled down her grimy cheeks, leaving a clean trail to show her sorrow.

The Witch lived in the sordid city, with appalling conditions, overrun with zombies. The Green Flu did this, made her this monstrosity, destroyed her life and happiness.

Witch gave an angry screech and, in a sudden haze of grief, attacked a lone car, savaging it to scraps of metal.

She sat back and howled, head tilted back, sharing her inconsolable agony to the world.

Like an angel with broken wings and cast down to earth to discover a world of misery and inhumanity. A world of cruelty and disarray.

A fallen angel.


	5. Asphyxiation

Chapter 5: Asphyxiation

Smoker wasn't moving. His chest now and again gave irregular breaths, the absence of a pulse simply escalating the fact he wasn't even human. He was a zombie.

And Rochelle cares for him, Nick mused grumpily. That haggard freak, she cares for him so much! Maybe it's time for him to ... pass away gently.

Nick gave a nasty smile. Time to give this Smoker a taste of his own medicine.

Rochelle was asleep, sprawled quietly over a desk in the corner of the sick room. Ellis was sitting watch, Coach was sleeping on an old mattress, and Nick was lying, pretending to be asleep, on a few blankets on the floor. He stood, feinting drowsiness.

"My turn for watch," he mumbled; Ellis nodded reluctantly as he swapped with Nick, crawling onto the blankets and falling asleep.

After a couple of silent minutes, Nick silently walked up to the Smoker. A length of wire was in his right hand, and a coil of cord in his left.

Next, Nick bound the Smoker so he couldn't struggle if he woke, let alone alert Rochelle to what was happening.

Lastly, Nick wound the wire tight around Smoker's neck. His ragged breaths became wheezes and chokes as he fought for the breath which wouldn't come suddenly.

His visible eye snapped open and he tried to sit up, but something was stopping him. Cords, tying him down onto the bed. And a wire, crushing his airway.

Silent and desperate, Smoker gasped, hoping against hope the construction would go. And as his eyes stared into Nick's the light in them flickered and died. Smoker finally lay still.

But Nick had forgotten something. In his haste to rid them of Smoker, he had forgotten the other Special Infected. The little Hunter had been watching the whole scene unfold, yet instead of fear in his eyes it was anger: the most uncontrollable rage, bubbling up inside him until he was going to burst.

Letting out a wild scream of fury, claws scrabbling and eyes glinting, the little Hunter launched himself at the pessimist's startled face.

But instead of hitting Nick's head, Hunter had pounced past the Survivor to get to Smoker; as his claws went to unravel the wire Nick snatched him up and began shaking him, like a terrier worries a rat, the shaking getting more violent until the small Hunter's neck was in danger of snapping.

Then a scream, Rochelle was awake and watching Nick trying to kill the young boy. Her hands were there, attempting to pull Hunter away from the hands of Nick. As the little Hunter huddled in Rochelle's grasp his attacker was pulled away by Ellis.

Coach peered into Nick's eyes and shook his head, concerned.

"The Infection's already got him. We need to kill him now, or we'll have a new zombie in our midst!"

Rochelle was staggered. Nick was a Carrier, but after so long fighting with so much contact she had assumed they were all immune. Why was he succumbing now?

Ellis gave a yell, stumbling backwards.

"Watch out!"


	6. Awakened daemon

Chapter 6: Awakened daemon

The new Nick snarled as he darted away. His inhuman eyes were overcome with a fresh lust.

A lust for blood.

The blood of the Survivors.

"Son of a bitch!" Coach exclaimed, grabbing the chainsaw he sometimes used to cut zombies' heads open. "I never liked you anyway!"

The zombie craved blood, but somehow this one was more cautious. It wasn't a Special Infected, it was a Common - but maybe it still had some mind after turning so recently.

It growled softly in the old Nick's voice, the soft clicking sound rattling as it grew louder. Its head cocked to the left, pitiless eyes focused on the chainsaw, before flickering to Ellis. It licked its lips hungrily.

The little Hunter abruptly leapt from Rochelle's arms to face the Common. He hissed like a cat, crouching and awaiting for his opponent to move.

Meanwhile, Rochelle was rescuing the lifeless Smoker. Her hope intensified as she thought she saw him move, but that flicker died as she realised it was her tugging at the wire that had shifted his dead body.

Or was it?

Smoker's eyelids twitched. Rochelle inhaled sharply, unwinding the strangulating wire that had cut into the skin of Smoker's neck.

He sat bolt upright, eye blind, unseeing, as he rummaged in his jacket pocket. A lighter and a cigarette were drawn out.

Smoker put the small paper cylinder to his thin lips and lit the end. He inhaled gratefully, wide eye relaxing; drooping, even, as the regular fumes of smoker poured into his empty lungs.

Rochelle stared in shock and amazement at Smoker, who - just a few seconds ago had been static - was now revived because of a cigarette?

She turned round quickly, hair whipping her cheek as she did so. The little Hunter sprang at the Common, and the two began to wrestle and tussle mentally around the floor, Survivors jumping out of the two Infected's path.

But Hunter was fighting a losing war.

Although his speed and agility outstretched the Common's by a mile his lingering strength did not.

Over the hisses and snaps, roars and growls emitting from the vigorous scuffle, Rochelle could hear his panting, indicating that his power was wavering. Every attempt to injure the Common resulted in another wound for himself.

The battle ended with the Common straddling the Hunter, cruelly imitating the Hunter's talent, raising one hand to strike the losing Infected dead. A mirthless smile stretched over the victor's face.

A tongue lashed out and looped round the raised arm, before curling and pulling back like a boomerang returning to the caster's hand.

Smoker had risen from his sick bed, cords snapping like thread round an enraged bull.

His visible eye flashed with intense anger.

"Nobody hurts Hunter and gets away with it!"


	7. The Tough Side

Chapter 7: The Tough Side

The Witch winced. The raucous cry rang in her ears, splitting and painful.

"Nobody hurts Hunter and gets away with it!"

Witch looked up, wiping her cheeks and playing with a strand of hair.

"So someone is angry, huh?" Witch sang softly, letting the lock of her hair drop, the absence of crystal tears hardening her resilience against cowering away.

This time, she would fight. And this time, she would win.

"No," she whispered softly, still in that hushed lilting voice, the one cracked from underuse, the one that made every word, every phrase, seem like a game.

"I will not lose again."

Her eyes glowed orange behind the thin curtain of straggly, bleached hair. Her mouth curled into a bitter smile, an emotion she had not shown in such a long eternity.

"I will not afford to lose."

Her rougher side was coming out: the one who objected to all the crying, the one who was shoved back into the dark corner so Witch could cry in peace without feeling guilty or embarrassed about the tears.

This stonier side of her mind set its jaw grim and eyes ahead, to a new horizon where tears fell no more, where only brutality was used, and only mirth for her enemies' deaths was shed.

"I cannot afford to lose," Witch snarled at the skies, before running to where she had heard the outcry.

Her feet, her body, were unused to running, only walking or sitting. Her feet stumbled and tripped; she fell at least once, but she was unaware of the bruises and grazes on her body and limbs.

All she cared about now was winning a fight, or at least sticking with her comrades (if there were any) to the end.

Witch scrambled over hedges and vaulted fences until she reached the large grey building, its shadow overlooking her.

When it had been built it had obviously been made to impose: it was tall, easily taller than most other buildings in the city; it had windows with bars over them; and wrought-iron gates that began the long gravel driveway beyond. The whole lot had a kind of imperious poise about it.

Witch nodded in admiration as she pushed the huge gates. They didn't yield. She tried harder.

They creaked open with a series of rasping squeals. She smirked. The workman, who had formed these, obviously hadn't made them to withstand a zombie apocalypse, where nobody would be able to oil the gates back to silent submission.

"Hah," she sang softly as she practically skipped down the driveway, gravel crunching under her feet, which were oblivious to the sharp pieces stuck in her soles. "They don't think little Witchy can handle this? Well, let little Witchy tell 'em this ... They're wrong!"


	8. I won't live to see the dawn

Chapter 8: I won't live to see the dawn

Smoker snarled, spittle flying off his tongue, as he flung the startled Common into the wall. It gave a yelp as the stone around it crumbled from the force of the blow. Smoker's eye was alight with such a fury it hurt to see the fire burning there.

His eye narrowed as he stepped closer to the cowering Common.

"You may beaten me once, but you won't beat me again. And although I may not live to see the dawn I shall kill you!" he roared, lashing out. The Common shielded its head as the tongue destroyed a chunk of stone next to it, reducing the piece to powder.

Smoker felt so much anger building up inside him. And to release it he screamed.

It was such a screech the remaining Survivors had to cover their ears in pain. Smoker's eye clamped shut and his body hunched, cords in his neck snapping tight, hands balled into fists.

And although blood dripped from Smoker's mouth and stained his white shirt his screaming didn't relent. His green jacket billowed backwards, and he tore it off. His white vest and jeans remained, Converse sneakers long gone throughout the whole ordeal of his life.

He screamed for his anger at the Common for hurting Hunter, his hatred towards the Survivors, but most of all he screamed his agony of being alive. All his pain, all his worry, everything he had ever known, experienced and felt was channelled into the yell.

The Common's eyes bulged and it made a mad rush for the door. As Smoker's scream faltered and died the Common reached the door as it was pushed open. A voice floated through.

"Witchy's gonna get you, oh yes she is, you can't do anything, 'cos Witchy's coming for you," it chanted, and she stepped through the door smiling nastily. Her eyes glowed orange and she let out an impressive scream, carving the Common's head neatly in two.

Witch gave the terrified Survivors a sweet smile, like a cat who got the cream. Her deadly fingers twiddled a strand of hair silently, a contented grin on her pale face. Her eyes faded back to a charcoal-grey and they roved around the room before falling upon Hunter.

"Uh, is it just me or does that little dude look in need of aid? I mean, he's half dead," she said, although her voice was slowly growing timid. The tough side was being pushed away again - forgotten, like usual.

Smoker's eye widened as he saw the fallen Hunter, sprawled over the floor, weakly groaning in pain. As he rushed over and scooped up the limp body the Survivors uncovered their ears.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Coach cursed as he saw first the cleaved-in skull of the Common; then Hunter and Smoker; and lastly Witch, bloody claws dripping, a pale and frightened expression on her face, which was now half-obscured by her hair, head bowed.

"Ugh ..." The little Hunter was sitting up, clutching his head. His claws were successfully bloodied, but thanks to the Common he had much more injuries. He was covered in many scratches from the Common's blunt claws, many shallow or deep bites from its teeth.

"Shh," Smoker soothed. "Don't worry. You're safe now, Hunter. You're safe."

He picked up the discarded green jacket and wrapped it round the small, shaking shoulders of the younger Special Infected. Hunter snuggled into it and quickly fell into a deep sleep. Smoker lifted him and put him on the bed. He then turned to the Survivors.

"Rochelle, I-"

His eyes rolled back and Smoker collapsed, tumbling backwards into objects. His fists hung through the bed bars, his head smashing into a metal cabinet before glass jars broke all over him. Smoker fell unconscious just as the substances spilled over him.

"Shit! Those were our pills!" Ellis snapped, gathering them up while Rochelle and Coach lifted the immobile Smoker back into his bed.

"Damn, Ro. He looks beat," Coach observed, scratching the back of his head. She nodded, only just seeing all the old wounds on Smoker's body. Saving Hunter obviously wasn't just a one-off thing.


	9. Roused from slumber

Chapter 9: Roused from slumber

The thing raised her head. Something had woken her. Something that could not be ignored.

She stood, snuffling softly, before finding her companion. She prodded the decomposing skin of the sleeping thing. He lifted his head drowsily, blinking at the brightness of dawn. The female thing lowered her head and whispered something to the male.

"At dusk we go."

The male let out a giggle.

Under the diluted sun, which rapidly sank, the two things crept from their cave. They sniffed around, dusk making the light fade. This gave them the advantage.

Their sharp eyes had been granted the gift of seeing better in the dark. Whether this was the Green Flu's only good side, or a curse, neither of the two cared anyway. They took the ability as useful and kept it as that.

The female hawked and spat, her long neck craned forwards; a glob of a substance splatted onto the floor. It fizzled and let off an acrid stench. The male sniggered hysterically, flexing his taloned hands eagerly.

The female flicked her dark pigtails back, and adjusted the strap of her sagging yellow vest.

"Well, Jockey, time to go," she said after an interval, her voice throaty and malicious.

"Yesyesyes, time to gogogo!" Jockey said excitedly, his high pitched voice easily expressing a hunger for a fight. "Jockey is happyhappyhappy he is with Spitter!"

Spitter gave a slightly satisfied smile, although if Jockey saw it she couldn't tell - he was too busy hopping about squealing and whooping.

Eventually, after watching her companion go mental for a while, Spitter grasped his arm.

"We must leave," she said solemnly. He nodded, before peering into the darkness. Night had long ago fallen and the couple began to tramp, their reasons unknown.

Jockey was humming loudly. Spitter smiled; she knew this tune. She began to hum alongside him, her doing the extra little melody, him the main tune. Jockey turned to her.

"So whatwhatwhat are we doingdoingdoing again, Spitter?" he said. Letting out an exasperated sigh, Spitter rolled her eyes.

"Jockey, I have told you literally five times already. We seek out Smoker, and we kill him!"

"But whywhywhy do we kill himhimhim?"

"Remember what he did to me?" Spitter's voice was laced with sorrow, but the tone she spoke in was angry. Her eyes darkened. It had been a long time ago ...

Smoker was hurrying down the street, glancing furtively over his shoulder. He heard a voice, a female voice - Spitter. He stopped and stared at her, with a worried expression. He was holding a small bundle tightly.

"Hey, Smokey," Spitter said, trailing a finger along his jaw seductively. He grimaced and slapped her hand away, still keeping one gripping the bundle though.

"I keep telling you, Spitter. Jockey likes you, go for him!" Smoker said tiredly. All coy, enticing demeanour of Spitter's vanished and she turned a cold eye upon him.

"Why the sudden change, Smoker?" she accused. "One minute you're all fine with us two, a couple, an ITEM!" Her voice rose to a furious scream. "You were content with hugging me, sleeping by me, you were fine with me fiddling with your tongue, and you were so, so patient; now, you're deserting me! For who, hmm? For what new love are you leaving me for, Smoker?"

"This one," he admitted sadly. He unwrapped the bundle and Spitter was shocked into silence at the sight of a baby. A scrappy, too-big hoodie was wrapped around it, small fists curled up, tiny claws nicking the material. Then Spitter's face twisted into a partly hurt, partly enraged expression of pure hatred.

There was a slap sound and after it followed a ringing silence. Smoker's head was twisted to the side, Spitter's hand raised still in the position it was in after she had slapped him. Smoker turned back to her, unfazed by the gesture.

"I'm sorry," he uttered softly.

"Whose is it?" she screamed, tears streaming from her eyes. "Yours and who else's?"

Smoker remained silent. Then he spoke.

"I do not know. I discovered it, alone."

Spitter's eyes glazed over with shock and an ever deeper fury. Her love was leaving her for some unknown child? Never.

"Liar. It's yours, I know it is!"

She spun on her heel and strode away firmly, biting her lip and holding back tears.

Smoker didn't try to stop her.

"So you remember?" Spitter finished. "He betrayed me for a so-called stranger's child. A strangers! I bet it was his. He left me and you to fend for ourselves, so suddenly we were unable to do so, having to scavenge and scrape to get a living."

They had been walking a couple of hours, doing a good few miles at a steady pace. The two stopped by a stream and slaked their thirst; Jockey found a carcass, which they hungrily tore from. When they were finally sated, Spitter wiped her mouth.

"Now, Smoker, be prepared to die."


	10. Death comes unexpected

Chapter 10: Death comes unexpected

Smoker smelt them before he even saw them.

Jockey and Spitter. But his blood chilled as he sensed their hatred, their venom towards him.

"Stay back," Smoker whispered. He pushed the Survivors, Witch and Hunter back with his tongue, before advancing slowly towards the door. Two snarling things burst through hit him full on, all three pummelling backwards and smashing through everything.

Smoker jumped backwards and faced Spitter and Jockey.

"Why are you-" he began. Spitter slapped him hard. "-doing this?" he finished weakly, rubbing the slap mark. Spitter's eyes travelled to Witch and Hunter.

"So this is the kiddy grown up," she said spitefully, walking over to Hunter and tightly gripping his chin, squashing his cheeks. Her grip was like a vice, and Hunter found that his jaw throbbed even after she had let go. Spitter turned to Rochelle and Witch, then to Smoker. She pointed a finger at the two females.

"So, who is this kid's mom?" she asked abruptly. "Which is the one you had the kid with, the Witch ... or the bitch."

The two men Survivors fought to get to Spitter, to destroy her for what she had called Rochelle. An arm stopped them. They turned to see Hunter.

"Leave this to Smoker," he said, although everything about him was worried.

Jockey giggled and cracked his knuckles in anticipation, and Spitter gave a sly smile as she tossed her thin bunches back.

"You're the bitch!" Smoker roared, running forwards and throttling Spitter with his bare hands. "She is not a hag like you!"

Spitter coughed and a small spurt of acid spattered onto Smoker's wrists. Grunting with pain, he reeled backwards into Jockey. The deranged little Special Infected gave a maniacal guffaw and sprang upwards, latching onto the head and shoulders of the older Special Infected.

"Spitter, here!" Jockey cried, flinging himself towards the female and thus dragging Smoker along with him. Spitter gave a crazed smile, a smile full of malice, which yearned for Smoker's torment.

"Smokey, you know what I want?" she asked, voice gentle but eyes full of malevolent intent, like a cat readying to pounce. "I want to hear your pained screams as I carve through your flesh; I want to acknowledge the fear in your eye as my acid burns your tongue; but, mostly, I want you to know that the only person that truly loved you is going to torture your little pet, and all of these Survivors once their protector is gone."

And Smoker's eye bulged as she slowly advanced towards him ...

"Leave him alone!" The voice of Hunter rang out clear and sharp, but Spitter detected a quaver of fear. She turned a disdainful eye upon the young Special Infected.

"Listen, boy," she sneered. "This revenge I have towards Smoker is more complex than your simple brain could ever comprehend. So stay out if this!"

And her hands flashed out, shoving Hunter, making him fall backwards into Witch's arms, who hastily pulled him up.

"Now, where were we?" Spitter said huskily, seeing that Jockey had successfully tied up Smoker and taken all the Survivors' weapons.

"Good Jockey!" she smiled, tickling his chin as he purred. "I might even give you a reward for all you've done." Spitter's eyes flickered over to Witch, obviously contemplating whether the girl should die or be handed to Jockey for his own ways of hurting her. Which consisted of slowly breaking her neck.

Spitter mused awhile before turning back to Smoker, who was roped by his elbows and thighs to the bed. He was kneeling, but his head lolled downwards, arms limp, shins and feet firmly wedged under the metal. A tight piece of cord kept his mouth shut, therefore obscuring the room for his tongue to come out.

Spitter crouched and faced the dejected person she had once loved. He lifted his head and his one visible eye stared mournfully into her merciless two. She gave a cruel smile and shook her head.

"Oh, there will be no pity for you, Smokey. Are you so consumed by your lost love for me you are speechless?" Her eyes creased into slits as she mocked him. His head slowly shook from side to side. "What's that, Smokey? Didn't quite catch that," she continued, letting out a harsh, humourless laugh. "Doesn't seem like you to ignore a girl, let alone one who loved you before you had a child with an unknown woman."

Smoker shook his head vigorously. Spitter's pretence of a smile vanished and a look of disgust came over her face. Her hand seized Smoker's face, tugging him to face her, squashing his cheeks and tumours.

"Don't you dare keep denying it is your child, you unscrupulous deserter! The Smoker I knew would not leave someone he was devoted to for another's child," she spat. Then she gave a small smile, venomous and evil. "Now it is time for torture," she sang.


	11. Burning a Hunter

Chapter 11: Burning a Hunter

"The irony," Spitter said softly, holding a cigarette next to a terrified Smoker's hair, "that a Smoker is going to die by a lit cigarette."

She lit the small cylinder of paper and set it upon Smoker's head. The flame heated up and his hair with it, and finally - to Spitter's enormous satisfaction - a small flame started.

Smoker froze as his hair began to burn, but was surprised when Spitter removed the cigarette. She squatted next to him.

"Now you can see how much I can hurt you, Smokey, the real fun can start."

Her hands dextrously undid the cord around Smoker's mouth; before he could react her hand was wrenching his tongue from his mouth, streaking it taut and holding it firmly in her grasp.

Spitter ran a long, curled fingernail along the long muscle, savouring Smoker's wince. Then she spat, a fairly large glob of her acidic saliva plashing onto his tongue. Smoker's eye almost bulged from its socket as the intense pain rocketed through him, nerves going wild, the agony unbelievable; it was like a fire had ignited on his tongue. Spitter gave a self-satisfied smirk as she saw the raw patch that had been eaten away on his tongue surface.

This time, when she touched it, Smoker's eye screwed shut and beads of sweat dripped from his brow and the end of his nose. Saliva dribbled off his tongue, which was still held in the female Special Infected's fist.

"Oh dear," she remarked. "Looks like it hurts bad." She pressed a hand to the mark and Smoker gave a muffled scream of pain.

Next Spitter walked over to Smoker. The end of his tongue was limp as pain numbed it, so much he couldn't move it. Spitter sat almost in Smoker's lap, both eyes fixed on his one.

Her face drew closer to his, and he struggled - but to no avail. His eye shut as Spitter drew so close her mouth was close to his. Her finger stroked his cheek.

Hunter was ready to attack Spitter, but Jockey was blocking his path. All he could do was helplessly watch as Spitter swooped down onto Smoker and threatened him, opening her mouth, hawking up glob of acid ready to burn his face off.

The little Hunter could see the repulsion and horror in Smoker's face and eye; the way his body was tense, the way he seemed to scream for her to stop threatening him.

Spitter leaned away, eyes gleaming; now she looked more excited.

"That is what I always longed for, Smokey - a lingering death for you, one that lasted ..." And with that she cleared her throat, summoning the acid from the pool in her deformed, bulging belly. Smoker writhed, attempting to get away, but it was utterly fruitless.

Her hands brushed his leg and he twitched involuntarily. She gave a sly smile and moved her hand slightly, touching his belt as if suggesting something.

"I do like innuendo," she commented. "It is so very fascinating, especially when you work out what the person is going to do." Smoker's eye widened with fear at the realisation.

A snarling Hunter rushed past Jockey and smashed into Spitter. No longer could he stand seeing her torment and assault Smoker; no longer could he stand doing nothing as his only family member was brutally tortured.

"Stupid little brat!" Spitter yelled, wrenching Hunter's hood back and lifting him by the hair; although he kicked and squirmed, all his struggling was useless. And he found himself suspended upside down by his ankles, Jockey holding him there as Spitter brought the cigarette lighter ever nearer. The flame flickered as it neared his face; Hunter could feel its heat searing his skin.

"So, how about it, Jockey?" Spitter said conversationally to the slavering creature upending Hunter. "How about some barbecued Hunter?"

"No way," Smoker butted in, although with some difficulty since his tongue was out.

"You can't stop me," Spitter retorted, giving Smoker a steely smile. He replied with an icy glare. His focus shifted to Hunter; the boy was struggling to hold back tears.

"I'll get us out of this alive," Smoker promised the boy. Spitter rolled her eyes. Her arm snaked out, hand tangling in Smoker's hair, and she wrenched his head back sharply. Hunter gave a cry of worry, only to be cuffed about the head by Jockey. Smoker choked and inhaled sharply from the sudden movement.

Spitter crushed his throat with her hand, flattening his trachea, thus stopping air from reaching his lungs just as Nick had done.

"Please, no!" Hunter protested. In a sudden burst of desperation, he wriggled out of Jockey's grip and bit Spitter's wrist.

She let out a scream of pain, wrenching her arm away from Smoker's throat in an attempt to free herself from the sharp teeth buried in her flesh.

"Hunter!" Smoker gasped, clutching his crushed throat. "No! Don't do it!"

Hunter just flashed him a determined glance, digging his claws into her shoulder and hand; she screamed louder, before spitting acid at his face. The burning substance splattered him in the cheek. The little Hunter gritted his teeth against the pain, lashing out and catching Smoker's assailant in the jaw. The acid she had been about to spit hit Jockey in the face.

He gave a mental squeal and fell backwards, clutching his face. Spitter's eyes grew wide with fury.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" she screamed.

**A.N: New chapter about another Special Infected coming soon!**


End file.
